Page 50 of Welded Defender
He lets out a long breath, his shoulders dropping an inch. “Good.”
For a second, we just stand there in the doorway—me clutching the flowers, him holding a paper bag—before I realize I’m grinning like an idiot.
I step back. “Sorry. Want to come in?”
“Yeah,” he says, following me inside.
I quickly find a jar for the flowers and set them on the counter. They make the little apartment feel warmer immediately, like they belong here. When I turn back, he’s hovering near the table, shifting the bag in his hands.
“I, uh, brought dessert,” he says. “Nothing fancy. Just some cupcakes from the bakery.”
“I also made dessert,” I say. “But there can never be too much sugar.”
He grins. “My thoughts exactly.” He nods toward the stove. “It smells amazing in here.”
I shrug. “It’s edible. That’s my standard.”
“I like your standard.” He steps toward me, close enough that I catch the scent of cold air still clinging to his collar. His hand lifts, hovering near my temple where a strand of hair has escaped my hasty ponytail. For a heartbeat, I stop breathing. He grazes my cheek as he tucks the strand behind my ear, then drops his hand back to his side. My cheeks flush hot, my ribs suddenly too small.
“Sit,” I say, turning to the stove and adjusting the burner that’s already at the perfect temperature. “It’s almost ready. I just need—” I swing open the fridge door. The fluorescent light illuminates bare shelves, a lonely ketchup bottle, and the empty space where the milk should be. My shoulders slump. “Crap.”
“What?”
“Milk. For the potatoes.” I shut the door. “I meant to grab some from downstairs earlier and forgot.”
“I can run?—”
“No, I’ll go. It’ll take two seconds.”
His brow creases. I see the part of him that wants to say he’ll come and the part that remembers to leave me the choice. He nods. “Okay. I’ll keep stirring this so it doesn’t burn.”
“Thanks.” I snag my coat from the hook and shove my feet into boots. “Be right back.”
Outside, the lot spreads like a sheet of white fading to gray at the edges. The wind has calmed. The garage’s front lights cast warm rectangles onto the snow. I fumble with the lock on the front door and yank it open. I key in the alarm code and rush to the staff room. The mini-fridge hums, full of sodas, a forgotten yogurt, the milk I need.
I grab the carton and shut the fridge.
The bell above the door rings, and I turn. “I got the milk?—”
The world tilts.
“Boo.” He’s leaning against the counter. Sandy blond hair, expensive coat, that easy, practiced charm he wears like a uniform. Brett.
For a half-second, my body forgets how to do things like breathe.
He looks around the lobby. “Cute place.”
The milk feels heavy, stupid in my hands. “You shouldn’t be here.” My voice comes out steadier than I feel. “Leave.”
He tuts, like I’m a kid throwing a tantrum. “That’s no way to say hello.” He steps forward once, easy. “I was worried about you.”
“Brett—”
“There she is.” He steps closer. “My girl.” He says it warmly, kindly, wrapped in that tone that used to mean safety and now tastes like metal in my mouth. “Come on. Let’s go home.”
I step back and bump the counter. The milk carton squeaks in my grip. Home. The word he uses for my cage.
“This is my home now,” I say. “You don’t get to decide where that is.”
